


Love, light me on fire

by BummedYourFag



Series: Fire-verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dom Castiel, Established Relationship, Heavy BDSM, Impact Play, M/M, Masochist Dean, Sub Dean, something's probably wrong with me but see if I care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-11-14 13:57:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11209482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BummedYourFag/pseuds/BummedYourFag
Summary: He took a deep breath, wanting nothing more than to turn around and forget this, forget what he was about to do, just go back to never having to deal with it ever again. Instead, his feet carried him into the room, where Castiel looked up with a smile. He threw the heavy object in his hand on the table before crossing his arms and all but glaring at his husband, whose smile disappeared as his eyes narrowed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING! This is heavy, non-sexual BDSM. Please check end notes for tags.

Dean paused in the doorway. Cas was curled in an armchair, wearing an old pair of sweatpants and a knitted sweater in a colour combination that was probably criminal in some states. It certainly hurt Dean’s eyes enough. Cas was reading, book perched in his lap and a cup of tea on the table next to him. He took a deep breath, wanting nothing more than to turn around and forget this, forget what he was about to do, just go back to never having to deal with it ever again. Instead, his feet carried him into the room, where Castiel looked up with a smile. He threw the heavy object in his hand on the table before crossing his arms and all but glaring at his husband, whose smile disappeared as his eyes narrowed. 

“No,” Castiel said simply, turning back to his book. “This isn’t how it works.”

Dean glared at him, but said nothing. He knew that. He knew all of this, but the itch had started weeks ago and it was far, far too late. Not that he’d anyone to blame but himself, but that didn’t change anything. Cas sipped his tea, turning the page calmly, but he looked up again as he put the cup back on the table. Dean straightened his back, clenching his jaw. It was all he could do not to snarl, fighting to stay still.

There was a rustle as Castiel set the book aside and got up, coming close to him. When his fingers touched Dean’s jaw, Dean jerked back, fixing his eyes straight forward instead. Castiel peered closely at him, then took a step back and picked up the braided cat o’nine tails that Dean had thrown onto the table, hefting it a few times in his hand. He’d picked that one specifically, but he refused to flinch from it. It was heavy, the ends tied in knots. It would hurt. Castiel put it back on the table, lifting his tea and sipping it again, still standing and just  _ looking _ .

This time Dean did snarl and Castiel met his gaze with infuriating calm.

“You’ll get what you need, Dean, but only if you ask.”

 Oh, he knew what this was about. Knew all he had to do was kneel and _ask_. It wasn’t like Castiel demanded anything elaborate, or even fucking courteous, just for him to ask, anyway possible. Castiel put his mug down and just... waited, fixing Dean with that calm stare that sent shivers up his spine. It shouldn’t be possible for someone to make him feel nailed to the ground by just staring at him, especially not someone wearing such a godawful sweater, but here he was, unable to move, body tense and one step away from turning around, walking straight out the door and heading to the closest bar, because the only thing left after this was whiskey and a brawl. He grinned mockingly, spreading his arms wide.

 “What are you waiting for, Cas?” he taunted. “Hurt me.”

 Castiel pointed at the ground. “Kneel. And. Ask.”

 “Make me,” Dean bit out.

 Something in Castiel seemed to pause, and he took a few steps back close to Dean, eyes again searching out Dean’s, but he couldn’t meet them. He stared straight ahead, until Castiel came up right in front of him, tilting his head.

 “That bad?”

 Dean forced himself to nod, turning his gaze away. They’d talked about this before. They’d been here before. It hadn’t been this bad since - since… he looked straight at Castiel, hoping he would somehow, somewhere, see his thoughts, the swirl of black and ugly that was filling his entire being. 

 “Why didn’t you come to me earlier?” Cas asked quietly and there was no way Dean could deal with this right now. Not kindness, not understanding, certainly not fucking _talking_ about it. He could feel his legs trembling from how tense he was, knees locked and back ramrod straight, poised to fight. 

 He said nothing. Castiel sighed, and that sigh tore through Dean like a rusty saw, but he couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’- and then he was crashing to the floor, his hands flailing out to catch him, his knees jolting into the living room carpet. There was a dull ache on the back of one knee, where Castiel had kicked him, but before he could roll back onto his feet, there was Castiel foot on his neck, pushing him face first into the carpet, Dean's fingers angrily digging into it.

 “You,” Castiel said slowly and icily from above him, “can now ask.”

 “Hurt. Me.” He spat out, the words costing him another bit of control. 

 “I will.” The foot disappeared. “Get up.” 

 He pushed himself up, keeping his eyes on the floor.

 “Bedroom. Undress.”

 For just a moment Dean closed his eyes against the burning somewhere in his chest, forcing away how Castiel's tone settled like ice inside him. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, then turned to the door. Upstairs. Bedroom. Undress. Do not walk out the front door, do not throw things, do not shout, do not pass go. He’d almost made it to the door, when Cas quietly called his name behind him and he paused, but didn’t turn around again.

 “We _will_ talk about this, Dean.” There wasn’t an inch of give in that voice, and Dean nodded jerkily to show he’d understood. Yes. They’d talk about it. They always did. 

 In the bedroom he chucked his clothes off, only dimly aware enough to shove them onto a chair instead of a pile on the floor. The room was light and fairly large, but the four poster bed made it seem smaller. Neither of them had particularly wanted a four poster bed, but they’d found it cheap and after a few modifications, it’d been an easier option than setting up hooks in the apartment they had rented at the time. He stood naked at the foot of it, reaching out to grasp each post at shoulder height. He’d asked. Castiel had promised. He tensed his shoulders, then relaxed and rolled his neck. 

 The door opened behind him. Castiel came over and Dean could feel how much his husband wanted to running his hand down Dean’s back. He tensed and Castiel moved away, the cat o’ nine tails thumping down on the bed in front of Dean. There was a closet door opening and a bit of rustling behind him, then Castiel came back. He made short work of strapping Dean’s wrists in the suspension cuffs, the black leather soft from use. Dean flexed his fingers around the bar of the grip, as Castiel attached them to the rings Dean had set in the posts. Good. The cuffs were good. He relaxed a little more, rolling his head from side to side and shaking out his legs. Castiel had understood, at least enough. There would be pain and there would be a lot of it, and he couldn’t run. The cat o’ nine tails lay taunting him on the bed. _You shouldn’t need this_ , it whispered, _you said you’re better now and you failed - look what you’re asking of someone you claim to love. You sick fuck._

 “Dean,” Castiel said behind him. He grunted. “You will not count. You can safeword out.”

 The instructions were perfunctory. He could always safeword out, he had safeworded before. Castiel knew that, he knew that, but Castiel insisted on reminding him every time. He nodded - and then there was pain, punching through him. He drew another breath and shifted. Castiel must have picked one of their heavier floggers. It thudded against his upper back, pain increasing and increasing for every hit. He knew Castiel could go harder, but this wasn’t some nice, slow warm up either. The force of them made him hang his head and force himself to breathe. Castiel moved further down, covering his ass with blows that drove him up on his toes, fingers gripping the handles of the cuffs.

 A slight pause, until he relaxed back onto his feet, then the blows came again and again and again, harder and harder, until he could barely get a breath between them. There was nothing about this that was predictable, the flogger raining down, each blow a like a punch to the gut, hard and determined. He stared ahead, gritting his teeth, the rage welling up inside him again. He’d do this. He could do this. His back was on fire, covered in embers, but he could do this. He would not break. _You always break,_ the cat o’ nine tail taunted. _The_ point _is to break, isn’t it, hmm, sweetcheeks? You_ want _to break._

 He was startled when Castiel hand found his hair, yanking his head back to kiss him. He kissed back with everything he had, the pain and the anger, biting at Castiel's lips, straining against his bonds until Castiel released his hair, stepped back and the pain came again. Dean groaned, tensing and relaxing his shoulders between blows, then groaned as particularly hard blow to his ass forced him back up on his toes. Castiel wasn’t pulling any punches now and the pain flared hot and deep. He blinked sweat out of his eyes. Every time he let his head roll forward, the beginning of that lulling high crawling over him, there would be an interruption in pattern, force, speed, always drawing him back kicking and screaming. 

 Castiel fingers against his back seemed so cold compared to his skin and he shivered, but said nothing, taking a new grip on the restraints. They weren’t done. He knew that. He still wasn’t prepared for the next blow. Castiel must have changed floggers, because this cut deeper. He knew, realistically, that his skin wasn’t tearing, but it might as well be for what good that knowledge did. Castiel, bless him, didn’t hit less hard. Dean took another long breath, letting it out slowly, and then that bite hit the bottom of his arse and he rocked up on his toes, groaning deeply. He couldn’t do jack shit about this. Nothing would stop Castiel now, except safewording, and fuck if Dean would safeword. 

 There was Castiel tongue in his mouth again, fingers twisting Dean’s hair again, the press of Castiel shirt against his sore back. Dean grunted into Castiel’s mouth, then Castiel yanked back and they were at it again. The blows sped up, still too unpredictable for Dean to sink into the feeling - not that he would, no, this he needed to feel, every inch of pain. He tensed his back, looking for that rage again, forgetting where he’d put it. He hauled it back, let it fill him, let that darkness and foulness cover every inch of him, as the blows rained down on his back, thudding, thudding, thudding, in fire and fire and more fire, driving him further and further up, and then Castiel hit his ass again and again and again and Dean rocked up on his toes, gasping for breath, and there was another blow and another and he blinked against the sweat running down his face, but there was another blow and he tried to draw in more breath, because he would not break, he wouldn’t, only for another blow to have him gasping again and again and his chest was so full and he couldn’t even stop the roar that tore through him, leaving him slack and panting, hanging off the restraints as Castiel hit again and again and again. 

 Castiel shirt against his side made him bite back a whine, as Castiel released one arm and then the other, letting him slump down on the floor when his knees buckled. Dean rested his forehead against the bedspread, smelling the laundry detergent Castiel favoured, eyes closed. The world was a pinprick moment of the throbbing heat of his back and darkness, but this was good darkness. He felt the bed shift below his forehead and then the softness of Cas sweatpants when he managed to pry his eyes open enough. He was exhausted and raw, and while he’d never been someone to sleep after a scene like this, there was something he had to do. 

 He shifted, limbs heavy and back screaming, slowly moving up on his knees and then down on the other side of them, closer to Cas, close enough to lean his head against the leg closest to him. Next, his left arm, but it was so heavy it took him two tries before he managed to sling it over Cas's legs, then lean against his husband. Cas's hand came down into his hair then, slowly carding through it. 

 “There you are, sweetheart,” Cas said softly, rubbing circles on his scalp. “Hello. You did so well. We still need to talk in a bit, but you’re okay now, we’ve done this before, we can do this again. I’m so proud of you.”

 Yes. Yes, they had. Dean pressed his face closer to Cas's leg, breathing deeply. For now, the foulness inside him had calmed, and later, they’d figure it out together, but for now, everything was finally okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Floggers, pre-negotiated scenes (like, off screen), they totally have a safeword, Dean's self-esteem sucks, no orgasms, no sex. 
> 
> This is not a guide on how to set up a scene. I'd say this isn't a healthy way to handle your emotions, and the characters know that too, but heaven knows I've done it, so make of that what you will.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, there ain't no sex in here.

The very first time it happens, Castiel’s not prepared.

They’re at Purgatory, a small basement club open to members only. The walls are painted black, because places like these have a thing for black, and there are small rooms everywhere. The bar won’t serve anything alcoholic, but Benny’s great for non-alcoholic drinks. There are screens with writhing bodies, and the clientele come dressed in everything from tshirts and jeans, to corsets and underwear, to gasmasks and latex. Gabriel calls it a den of inequity and Castiel rather agrees, but sometimes they come here anyway. Rarely for play, they’ve never been much for playing in public. Neither of them have any interest in exhibitionism; what they do alone, is their business and nobody else's. Sometimes, though, they just want to hang around others who’ll understand. They’re far from the strangest couple here and that in and of itself is a form of comfort.

He’s asked Dean to come shirtless and smiles, watching him talking to the short brunette in a black underbust, in his bare feet and low, soft jeans. That’s how it works for them. He asks, and Dean chooses whether to follow or not. There’s an element to their relationship that’s unequal, sure, but a long-term D/s arrangement wouldn’t work for them. Perhaps mostly because as much as Castiel identifies himself in terms of dominant, but not a sadist, Dean identifies as a masochist, but not a submissive. What they do, despite their discrepancies, is meet and match in that grey area in between labels.

Dean throws his head back and laughs, and Castiel would be content to watch this all night, but then Dean comes over, leaning close to his ear.

“The cross is free.”

Cas pulls back, looking searchingly at Dean. It’s been a while since they played, closer to a month probably, because something, something he can’t put a finger on, is going on. Even now, there’s not the usual eagerness in Dean’s eyes, but a darker, dangerous glint. Perhaps he should refuse, should avoid it, but he doesn’t, curious to see where this takes them. See, the thing is, he trusts Dean. He knows Dean. It’s been two years since that first kiss, that first, slightly awkward, stumble of slightly too much alcohol and a very handily placed wall. They’ve hashed out _what_ and _how_ by now, and discussed the details of this many times before. He’s seen Dean hurt and break and put himself together again. He’s also seen Dean safeword out of something he’d been able to handle before, just because it didn’t work that time. He trusts Dean, and more importantly, he trusts Dean with Dean himself.

So, he nods. Dean’s quick over to the corner of the room, where the St Andrew’s cross is set up. They’ve used it once before, and it doesn’t take Cas long to buckle the restraints around Dean’s wrists. The jeans can stay, he’s not going to hit that low tonight. There’s tension he doesn’t recognise in how Dean rolls his shoulders back before settling against the cross and for a moment he’s reminded of a skittish horse. Cas brought two floggers from home, mostly because Inias had wanted to see them, but he unhooks the lighter one from the belt loop of his jeans, then steps close and kisses Dean’s shoulder.

“You will not count. You can safeword out,” he murmurs. Dean nods stiffly.

They’re in public and something’s off, so he starts slow and light, warming Dean’s skin thoroughly. Even so, he can see Dean getting tenser and tenser, biting back the sounds he usually makes. Cas forces himself to pay attention, closely. When he pauses and runs his hand over Dean’s back, Dean jerks away, snarling. He doesn’t hit to cause pain, he hits because Dean choosing to receive pain to please him is _beautiful_ , and as such he can tolerate a lot from Dean, but this? Outright contempt? No. Dean can safeword out if this isn’t going to plan.

His fingers curl into Dean’s hair, yanking his head back hard.

“Do not test me,” he growls in Dean’s ear.

Dean grins at him, sharp and full of teeth.

“What? Can’t take a challenge?” he mocks.

Castiel twists his fingers hard, relying on instinct to guide him through this. Instinct and trust.

“Oh, I can take anything you throw at me, boy,” he says quietly. “The question is what you can handle.”

Dean's laugh isn’t really a laugh and he rolls his eyes. “C’mon then, Cas. See if you can break me.”

Ah. There's a clue. There's also what he’d been looking for - Dean asking for what he needed. They’d talk about that later, but this would do. He roughly releases Dean’s hair, putting his hand on the bound man’s neck and squeezing hard while he catches Benny’s eye across the room. Castiel nods slightly towards Dean’s back, hefting the flogger in his hand. Benny’s eyebrows come together as Castiel tries to mouth _Do not interfere_. Whether Benny gets it or not, he didn’t know, turning back towards Dean and releasing him.

He unbuttons Dean’s jeans, shoving them and his underwear down around his knees. That’s likely uncomfortable and probably slightly embarrassing, not their thing really, but he needs to surprise Dean. Dean’s not asking for nice, or their agreement, he’s asking to be _broken_. He’s asking to be _made_ to submit - or at least, Cas assumes as much. That, he can do. There are a million other ways he’d prefer doing it, but this is where it’s at and this is what he’ll give Dean.

He doesn’t pull his punches. Much. He goes in with the heavier flogger, hitting hard over Dean’s shoulders and shoulder blades, hips, bottom and thigh. Left, right, left, right, right, lower left, upper left… as soon as he finds himself in a pattern he changes it. Dean huffs out breath, but doesn’t make a sound. His shoulders are tense and in pauses he’ll roll his neck or shake out a leg. He doesn’t safeword. Sweat drenches his back, and when Cas jerks his head back and kisses him, Dean kisses back forcefully, nipping hard after his lips.

They go again. And again. Cas can see where there will be bruises on Dean’s ass, where he wasn’t warmed up. He’s getting warm himself, forcing his breath to come slow and even. He will not lose his temper, because this isn’t about him.

Next time he yanks Dean’s head back, he curls his fingers around Dean’s throat and there’s a tiny, tiny sound from Dean, his kiss slower and deeper. They’re getting somewhere. He sees movement off to the side and notices Benny moving someone along. Benny nods briefly to him and offers up a different instrument, a narrow whip made of four round leather thongs. He hefts it and considers it, looking at Dean who’s panting, but not breaking. Cas nods to Benny and goes back to run it over Dean’s back. He tests it’s length, noting it’s longer than the flogger he had, then swings. Dean grunts and moves up on his toes, before sinking back onto his heels again.

More sweat runs along Dean’s back. More hits fall. Dean groans and grunts and draws noisy breaths. He watches carefully as Dean’s shoulders gather back tension that’d he’d already let go. Dean’s eyes, when Cas kisses him again, are slightly glassy, and his lips are trembling. Cas’ fingers itch to run down Dean’s back, but he doesn’t. Instead, he goes back to the heavy flogger. Let’s it follow the red lines from the narrower whip, throws his arm back and follows the movement of the flogger to land punching hits. This time, when Dean goes up on his toes from the blows, Castiel doesn’t stop. He counts instead. One, two, three…

On fourteen, Dean lowers his head and screams into the wood of the cross, deep and dark and primal, before he goes slack against the cross. Castiel narrows his eyes, but doesn’t stop. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

At twenty, Dean is limp, his back and thighs a deep red, with brighter marks from the narrower whip, sweat nestling in the dimples above his butt, his hair damp - and, when Castiel reaches up to release the restraints, Dean’s face is wet with silent tears. Dean doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t sob, doesn’t do more than silently and limply tremble as Cas unbuckles the other restraint, wraps an arm around Dean’s chest and takes two steps to a love-seat near the cross. He lowers Dean to the floor - not unkindly, but perfunctorily.

This still isn’t over.

He sits down on the love-seat, about a foot from Dean, and waits. First, nothing happens. He’s just starting to reconsider when Dean twitches, turning his head towards him, an arm slung up on the seat reaching for his hand. Dean’s eyes are narrow slits and his face is so wet, Castiel can’t tell if he’s still crying, but he lays his hand over Dean’s and strokes his knuckles gently, still waiting. Some minutes later, Dean shifts a little closer, and tentatively, Castiel brushes his hair back from his damp forehead.

That’s when Dean truly breaks.

He draws a deep, deep breath, choking on it, coughing and falling forward, uncoordinated, burying his head in Cas’ lap and trusting. It’s impossible to tell if he’s still crying, but he’s noisily heaving in deep breaths, trembling hard, the other arm slung limply over Cas’ legs.

“There you go, baby,” Castiel says quietly. “I got you. I’ve got you.”

Dean curls around him and _clings_ , as though Castiel is his lifeline and he’s drowning. This, Cas can deal with. The rest of the world can wait, he thinks, as he cards his fingers through Dean’s hair, massaging his scalp and muttering comforting words. This is his Dean; his stubborn, proud boy.

_His._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tops and doms aren't all seeing, all knowing. Cas is acting as much on instinct here as Dean is. *shruggy shoulders*


End file.
